


I Get a Kick Out of You

by cloudfree



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Character Study, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character(s), Recreational Drug Use, Sex, kind of, unnamed sole survivor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 07:36:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14828142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudfree/pseuds/cloudfree
Summary: Hancock’s finally found the drug he’s been itching for, and it comes in the form of a blonde bombshell with cherry red lips and piercing blue eyes.





	I Get a Kick Out of You

**Author's Note:**

> My first work for the Fallout fandom! And who better to write about than John Hancock? I love my favorite friendly neighborhood beef jerky, 'nuff said. 
> 
> Hope you like it!

 

Looking at her now, it’s like she’s come straight out of one of those Nuka-Cola pinup posters, gun blazing and tits bouncing gaily in the radioactive breeze. Her hips are broad, waist slender; eyes the color of an ice-cold bottle of Quantum just waiting to be uncorked and guzzled. She’s got that dog of hers by her side, trusty 10mm in her right hand, and she’s gonna take whatever the Wasteland can throw at her, and fling it right back in the Wasteland’s stupid face.

 

When she first stumbled into Goodneighbor, looking lost and scared and vulnerable, Hancock’ll admit he had his doubts. Watching her struggle to shake Finn and his grubby fingers off her possessions, off her supple body, he’d been forced to intervene. Lady had the gall to look afraid of _him_ when he took care of the conniving bastard with a well placed stab to the gut (was a damn good hit, if he’d say so himself).

 

She’d tried to avoid him, those first few days. And he had to hand it to her, she was _sneaky._ When the whole shebang with Bobbi No-Nose happened right under his own nose (or lack thereof), he’d been caught with his pants down. Even more surprising was when she’d come back to him, to _apologize_ for it all.

 

“If you make it a habit of saying sorry to people who probably don’t deserve it,” Hancock had laughed, “Well, sweetheart, you won’t last very long out here.”

 

(And she’d laughed along with him, mouth crinkling, but her eyes were defiant. And there was something else there, too. Something _predatory._ It made Hancock’s heart pound and his breath hitch.)

 

Two days later, she asked him to join her little company and she’s been dragging him around the Commonwealth ever since.

 

He’s had a lot of time to reflect on this little partnership of his with the Woman Out of Time, as people have come to call her: Turns out she’s not the trembling little mouse she makes herself out to be. She can handle herself well with a gun, and she’s saved his ass more times than he can count (not that he would care to admit it, anyway). She’s tougher than she looks, and though she hasn’t been here too long, she’s already hardened by the environment, hardened by what she needs to do, and braver than most people he’s had the misfortune of knowing.

 

( _My son,_ she cries in the middle of the night, as Hancock rubs soothing circles into her shoulders, trying to comfort her in any way he can, _I need to find my baby. Shaun, please. Give him back to me._ )

 

War-torn and ravaged as the Wasteland may be, it’s beautiful, in a predatory sense. With its gnarled, twisted shrubbery and diverse wildlife. Everything’s killing each other, and everything’s dead. Or will be, anyway. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and honestly? Hancock wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

He likes to just wander with her, in this fucked-up world of theirs, likes to take his sweet time gazing at the withered scenery as Dogmeat nips at their heels, trotting faithfully behind them. The world is blackened, dead, but there is a certain beauty to it, to _her,_ that he can’t take his eyes off of.

 

Whether it’s watching over her, or shooting baddies, or just sightseeing, he’s come to love the time they’ve spent together. When she helps out random strangers who just need an extra hand, or when she exerts her righteous fury on those that cower before her, or when she’s just looking at him _,_ and _only_ him _,_ hard cobalt eyes softening into that fond gaze that he only ever sees directed at him, Hancock falls a bit more.

 

(Out of all the chems he’s tried, out of all the Jet and Psycho and Mentats and Buffout he’s done, none of them could even hold a candle to _her._ )

 

He knows how dangerous it is. Knows how dangerous love can be, especially for people like them. There’s no guarantee that they’ll be alive tomorrow, or even ten minutes from now. So he waits. Doesn’t make a move, even though he can feel her eyes on him from across any room and his name on her lips like a prayer when she thinks he isn’t paying attention.

 

He’s content to watch her, and protect her, and love her from afar, until fate separates them, like they are bound to be.

 

They’ve camped out in what used to be an old metalworks factory on the very edge of the Commonwealth, after clearing it of mutants and bloatflies and mangy, disease-ridden hounds. Her sleeping bag is bunched up next to his, and her warmth heats up his shivering frame, surrounds it and makes him feel safer than he’s ever been.

 

“Can’t sleep?” he asks her, noticing the bags under her eyes and the tear tracks on her cheeks.  They sit up together, silent, unmoving. He offers her some chems; to her surprise, she actually accepts (up until now, she’s sworn to stay clean, to be ready for her son), and soon they’re both hiccuping and giggling in the thick, musty air.

 

“Your eyes glow in the dark,” she laughs, painting shapes in the sky with her fingertips.

 

“Dunno what you’re talking about, babe,” he snorts, “my eyes are black.”

 

They cackle, like they’re sharing an inside joke, and then everything changes.

 

He tastes the Mentats on her lips when she first kisses him, all heady flavor and intoxicating ease. He’s taken chems with other people before, but never like _this._ He knows the effect he has on her, knows the drugs are making their minds loose and pliable, but he can’t for the life of him bring himself to care.

 

He brings her closer to him, sits her up so she’s perched on his lap, and tangles his withered fingers in her hair. It’s really not the time, or place for this. They’re both out in the open and their sounds could bring about some unwanted attention but he reckons they’d both be ready for that sort of thing if it happened.

 

So he doesn’t push her away, doesn’t stop her, and instead busies himself with undressing her, unlacing her leather armor piece by piece and setting it down beside them. His hat is discarded, and he’s got no time to be embarrassed because she’s pushing him down onto the ground, splaying her fingers on his chest.

 

“Always wanted to do this,” she drawls, moving her hands lower so she’s palming at the bulge in his crotch, “Needed to feel you.”

 

“I’m right here, sunshine,” he hums, “right here, where I should be.”

 

“Damn right.” Her face is close to his, noses touching. “And you ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

 

(He promises himself then and there that he’ll fight tooth and nail to be with her. Hell, he’d die for her, if that’s what it takes for her to be safe.)

 

She rides him with a desperate wildness, clutching at him and moaning while tears stream from her eyes like falling stars. He can’t do anything to support her, she’s got the reins here and she’s taking everything from him, _everything._ Yet he can’t find himself to care, just lies still and wonders how a guy like him managed to ever catch a woman like her.

 

There’s no going back from this, he realizes, clutching at her hips for dear life, he’s absolutely ruined for anyone else. She came into his life like a whirlwind, bringing color and life along with her, uprooting everything he’d ever known and dragging him along for the fun of it, and he’d been hooked on it, on _her,_ from the very first day. She’s his new fix, and nothing will ever be the same again.

 

“Hancock, I-“ she cries, coming down to kiss him again. Their mingled noises of pleasure fill the campsite. He can feel her tightening, can feel her inner walls converge as she comes closer to release.

 

“I’m here, honey,” Hancock croons, “you can let go now.”

 

And she does, with a strangled cry. He joins her soon after, and then they’re limp and boneless in each other’s arms.

 

“Hey, Hancock,” she says uncertainly.

 

“Yeah, darlin’?”

 

“How do you feel, about us?” She asks, and Hancock barks out a laugh. “About what we did?”

 

Her voice is small, a wild contrast from her generally confident tone, and it’s endearing, in a way. He pulls her closer unconsciously, and she melts into him, tangling her legs with his.

 

“Hey, I ain’t judging, but you must be really smashed if you want to get with a withered old prune like me,” he mutters dryly, the self-hatred dripping easily off of his tongue.

 

She must be feeling the same apprehension, he figures, self-deprecatingly, because she takes a while to answer.

 

“You should give yourself some more credit,” she yawns sleepily, “I’d get with you no matter what you looked like.” And damn, if that isn’t a declaration of love taken straight out of yours-truly’s mouth.

 

“Yeah?” He asks fondly, stroking her hair.

 

“Mm-hmm.”

 

He holds her close when they fall asleep, and the radioactive night sky glimmers and crackles overhead.

 

(Two weeks later, he finally has the balls to say “I love you.” And her knowing smile and the gentle way she presses her lips to his are all he needs to know that she does too.)

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work comes from Cole Porter's I Get A Kick Out of You, sung by the lovely Ethel Merman. I suggest you give it a listen, if you haven't. It's from the same musical, too!
> 
> Until next time!


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